That night, sleep came uneasy, heavy as chains. And when it finally pulled me under, it did not grant peace it showed me horrors.
A woman ran through endless corridors of shadow. She wasn't my aunt. She wasn't anyone I recognized. But her terror was real, frantic. Her breath ragged, her eyes wide, she fled as though the walls themselves were closing in. Someone was after her. Something.
She collided with a man whose face I couldn't see. Yet his presence was different protective, unyielding. He caught her as if she belonged in his arms. They clutched at the pendant hanging from her neck, desperate fingers tangling around the chain as if the small object were their last anchor.
The pendant itself wasn't familiar… but the patterns carved into its metal were. I had seen them before not on an object, but etched into skin. They glowed faintly, the same intricate markings burned into the neck of the faceless man who held her.
Then the strike came.
A blade...but not quite a blade. It was red, alive in its color, with intricate lines running across its length like veins of fire. It pierced through the woman's back, and her scream cut through the dark. Her eyes wept blood, red streams sliding down her pale cheeks.
The man held on, refusing to let her fall, desperate to keep her alive. She shook her head, trembling, and pressed the pendant into his grip. Her lips moved, words spilling but I couldn't hear them. I only knew they were meant for someone else. For me?
He nodded, reluctant, but before he could flee with it, another figure stepped from the shadows.
A hooded man. Not human. Not beast. His presence was suffocating, his voice dripping with venom.
"This is what you get for disobeying me."
With one hand, he lifted the woman into the air without touching her, her body writhing, her cries splitting the air. His fist clenched tighter, and her scream tore through me so violently that—
I woke with a gasp.
The echo of her pain clung to my chest, the image of the red blade still flashing behind my eyes. My breath came ragged, my skin clammy with cold sweat.
Then came the knock.
I forced myself upright, stumbling across the floor toward the door. My fingers brushed the wood—only to stop when I saw it.
Hovering there in the still morning air was a scroll. Sealed in deep blue wax, stamped with the mark of a raven mid-flight. The crest of Headmistress Seraphina Ravenshade.
My stomach dropped.
I reached out, snatching it from the air. Even before breaking the seal, I knew. This was about the detention. About the punishment she had promised us.
My hands trembled as I pressed the scroll to my chest. Her voice echoed in my mind again—attractions are natural, but indulgence is dangerous… reputation, once cracked, is near impossible to mend.
I couldn't breathe.
Moving to my wardrobe, I pulled out a plain, dark set of clothes, the kind that drew no attention. Today was Professor Selvara's detention. Everyone whispered she was stricter than stone itself. If Seraphina had been merciless, Selvara would be worse.
Shoving the scroll onto the desk, I shut myself into the washroom. Cold water splashed over my face, chasing the last remnants of the dream away, though the woman's bloodstained eyes still lingered, etched into the back of my mind.
The corridors to the Sculpture Studio felt longer than they ever had before. Every step echoed with whispers that weren't subtle at all. Heads tilted as I passed, students lowering their voices just enough for the words to still reach me.
"That's her—the one who stayed with Ashford in one room."
"Reckless… fearless, really. Or maybe stupid."
Just imagine spending the night in the same room as him."
"Maybe that's what she wanted all along."
"Bet she thinks rules don't apply to her."
Heat rushed to my cheeks, not from guilt but from sheer humiliation. Every look, every murmur felt like a dagger twisting deeper. I hadn't done anything—yet in their eyes, I was branded guilty. A rebel. A disgrace. I quickened my pace, refusing to meet anyone's gaze, though the judgment pressed against me from all sides like an invisible cage. What could I do now? The damage was done. And no amount of truth would undo their minds.
By the time I reached the Sculpture Studio, my heart was pounding. Professor Selvara was already there: tall, composed, her dark robes falling around her like folded wings. Her glasses perched low on her nose, and the weight of her stare was suffocating, though she barely acknowledged me.
Alaric wasn't there yet. My chest tightened. Of course. We got into this mess together, and now I was left to face it alone.
Selvara didn't speak. She simply adjusted her spectacles and opened the book in her lap. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. I stood there like I was invisible, ignored, waiting for a command that never came. Finally, unable to bear the silence, I blurted,
"Professor… what do I have to do?"
Slowly, she lowered the book. The silence stretched, heavy, before she finally spoke.
"You will not scrub floors or polish shelves like other students. That would be a waste of time. Instead, you will learn something ancient. Something rare."
Her gaze sharpened, pinning me. "Veythralis. The Mind-Carve. Sculpting without touch—only with thought. The hardest, most dangerous form of creation."
I blinked, stunned. "Me? But… I can't even get clay to hold a shape."
"You can," Selvara corrected, voice clipped. "You already have. That sculpture you made in class—the one you abandoned? Its detailing carried the mark of someone guided not by hand, but by instinct. Your mind bent the clay, even if you didn't realize it."
I swallowed hard. "But I didn't mean to."
"Exactly." A faint spark glinted in her eyes. "Which means you are closer than most ever will be. Many train lifetimes and never make clay tremble. You did it without knowing."
She stepped nearer, her presence sharp as a blade. "This is no compliment. Potential means nothing unless forged into mastery. You will return here every detention. You will practice until the clay bends like breath beneath your thoughts. Only then will this punishment end."
Her words sank like stones into me. Two weeks of this. Every single day.
Still, despite the dread, a flicker of something stirred inside me. A pull. Almost… hope.
I turned back to the mound of clay. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and pushed. My thoughts, scattered and trembling, reached toward it. At first, nothing. Then—movement.
The clay rippled. Twisted. Slowly, painfully, it shaped itself into something I hadn't planned.
A pendant. My pendant.
My eyes flew open. The shape was precise, the patterns carved into its surface sharp and intricate. Patterns I recognized. Patterns I had just seen in my dream.
My blood ran cold.
Selvara leaned closer, gaze flickering across the pendant. Her expression darkened—something unreadable, almost dangerous—but then she straightened and said nothing. She adjusted her spectacles and returned to her book as if the pendant had never existed.